Photo courtesy of Peter DuffyNancy Duffy and Peter Musacchio: A landmark marriage that produced memorable moments, and memorable kids.

In today's column, Peter Duffy talks about the extraordinary - albeit brief - marriage of his parents, karate master Peter Musacchio and Nancy Duffy, founder of the St. Patrick's parade in Syracuse. Peter lost both his mother and father in the last three years.

As part of our conversation, he began describing his mother's admiration for Bob Haggart, a longtime columnist with The Post-Standard who died in 1997. Haggart wrote vividly of his long struggle with cancer, and Peter recalled how his mother lauded her old friend in a poem.

He sent along a copy of that poem, along with another one Nancy wrote about St. Patrick's Day. Peter said her mother left a large collection of poetry, and these two examples leave me hoping that someday he'll gather it in a collection.

As Nancy's son said in the finale to his note: "She was somethin.'"

MARCH 17th PRAYER

Dear Parade

Loosen your emerald ties.
Maybe they are too tight for sun.
Visit us instead with just the essence of green.
Go buy one perfect day.

-- Nancy Duffy

To Haggart

A Poem by Nancy Duffy

We never really knew you
Until you began to die.
Ten years of dying.
And showing up at news conferences.
You let the TV guys go first.
You were print after all,
And the hard questions come last,
Even from a dying columnist who wouldn't give up.

We shared in your hard moments.
Like your wedding, when you strained to stand
And tried to understand why we thought all those guests were necessary.

They changed plans to be with you and your Brenda
At the reflecting pool in front of Horticulture at the Great New York State Fairgrounds.
It was a surprise you were too much a gentleman to question.
Summertime before the Fair - only groundspeople somewhere.
But that sunny day, our garish group
Of city councilors and senators, football coaches and a black church choir,
Kessner and Nathans handing out long-stemmed white roses.
No wedding could top it.
It was so Haggart.

Brenda was late.
But late enough to make you even more intriguing,
Pacing the lawn, finally catching the picture of your bride and best friend
Sauntering over the State Fair bridge to you.
It was not your style to wear a white tux or cut your hair or clip your beard.
But that day you looked good.
So good, one TV gal asked to stand in if Brenda didn't show.

I like your wedding better than your funeral.
You were quietly courageous, with bolder acts to come.
You began to live your dying gracefully,
Telling us about it, each undaunted step through traps of pain and disease.
You growled at death, signing on to pioneering operations,
The way you rode your motorcycle, fast and unwavering.
Or the way you strained to take shots of lightening from the front seat of Stauffer's plane.
You rode through the storm.

Reminding me and all the others to think of other things.
Bring a book, go to a baseball game. Listen to others.
I will always think in awe. Always. You are Haggart.
A bigger word than hero.
A standard I wish to my depths I could read now
And know how to do tomorrow.